


Fippy Elbows In

by HelenaHandbasket



Category: Jeeves & Wooster
Genre: First Time, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-05-14
Updated: 2004-05-14
Packaged: 2017-10-09 12:22:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/87297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HelenaHandbasket/pseuds/HelenaHandbasket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wherein the attentions towards Jeeves instigated by the dashing young Fippy render Bertram in a state of panic, acrimony, and indefinable thing-ness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fippy Elbows In

**Author's Note:**

> My first and only attempt at Wodehouse pastiche.

Fippy Elbows In  
by Helena Handbasket

 

It's a rummy thing about love, I've always thought, that it has a tendency to slink up and pounce when one is least ready to defend oneself. I mean to say, there you are standing innocently about, perhaps whistling some jaunty number that has wedged itself into the old coconut, when out of nowhere Love rears menacingly forth and spears you through the ribcage like some naked Zulu chappie with ambitious dreams of thwarting the grand old British E.

That isn't to say, of course, that such attacks are always unpleasant. On the contrary, if cupid's arrow should happen to strike when the planets are aligned just whatzit and Fate is smiling down on you like a doting mother, you might easily find yourself shouting a hearty 'huzzah!' and cherishing the wound with all your mustard. You see, when a man is in love and loved in return, the worries of the world are lifted from his tired brow like a veil or feather or some other object (usually of insubstantial weight) characterized by a particular ease in lifting. I mention this not out of a desire to philosophize upon the emotions that rule the will of man, but out of experience. For just such an ambush befell yours truly on a warm week-end in early summer, when a young man ought rightly to spurn philosophy in favor of contemplating a fine cigar or the odds at Ascot or some other topic of equally vital importance.

On said anomalous occasion, I was visiting for a week in Northumberland at the domus familias of young Fippy Phipps-Fotheringay-Phipps, an ambiguously distant relation of my old chum Barmy's and a recent inductee of the Drones Club.

Fippy was a bracing chap, if a bit lean on the old grey matter. He was the sort of fellow who had trouble keeping track of which bits of his trousers he was supposed to stick his legs in. Nevertheless, he was matey enough. And possessed of the sort of devastating good looks that made girls of all shapes, ages, and sizes compulsively swoon. He was just the sort of chap to haul along on a country visit if one wanted to secure a guarantee of not getting engaged: with a map like his within eyelash-batting distance, all other prospective victims would be rendered invisible to the fair sex.

But, as I said, he had clearly, at some point in his life, been denied the requisite apportioning of fish in his daily feedbag. This policy, apparently, runs in the family, for a single conversation with Barmy is enough to convince the attentive mind to disregard the majority of phrases that cross the lips of a Fotheringay-Phipps. Yet something Fippy blurted out as we lounged after dinner on a Friday evening playing Throw Turkish Cigarettes into the Flower Arrangement managed nonetheless to strike a sour note, and strum Bertram's heartstrings in a ghastly minor chord.

"I say," he accurately reported. "Your man Jeeves is something of a corker."

"A superior gentleman's gentleman is not to be found in the whole of Britain."

"I don't suppose you'd be willing to part with him."

"Not for a million pounds," I said, puffing out my chest with the conviction of one of Rosie M. Banks' working class heroines. "Jeeves is a miracle. An absolute dream. The king himself would be instructed to hit the highlands should he attempt to separate me from my faithful valet."

"A million's no good, eh?" mused Fippy, scrunching up his face as if I'd just biffed him in the nose with a well-stocked powder puff. "What about a hundred thousand, then?"

I goggled. The loon was serious. The phrase 'more money than sense' might spring to mind were it not that three shillings would easily outprice the helping of sense with which old Fippy had been bestowed. But while the buzz at the Drones was that he surpassed even Oofy Prosser in the weight of his wallet, I had never conceived that Fippy was at liberty to regard a hundred thousand pounds as a drawing room sum.

"You're mad," I informed him. "Utterly loony. That is, if you'd really fork over six suitcases of cash for the mere privilege of Jeeves's employment. For what purpose, I must ask? There are plenty of capable valets about, and you don't get yourself into nearly enough scrapes to require the services of his momentous b."

"Well, he's a good-looking chap, isn't he?" said Fippy with not a trace of humor. Nothing but the purest of earnestness peered back at me from behind his beady eyes. "He's tall and solid... terribly strong, I'm sure. And he's got a lovely kind of thing-ness about him that I have come to admire. He'd be quite handsome to have about. Besides, I dare say he goes rather well with Mother's décor."

"He's not a bloody Degas," I retorted with an adequate injection of Wooster affront. "Care you nothing for the merits of his legendary brain?"

"I've never seen the attraction of brains. They're all sort of pink and slimy. Not very lovely to look at at all."

"Well you can't have him!" I bellowed, although looking back with an honest eye, the tenor of my exclamation was closer to a womanly shriek.

"Righto," Fippy called out as I stormed away in fury. "I'll just let you think it over, then."

 

* * *

 

"If you don't mind my remarking, sir," Jeeves lilted, "you seem to be out of sorts." As he said this he stooped to retrieve my dinner jacket from the floor, where it had landed after having been flung at a portrait of Fippy with no success and even less dramatic effect. The bally thing had only flown about three feet, and I had nevertheless managed to wrench my shoulder with the effort.

I slouched into an armchair and rubbed the offending joint. "As a matter of fact, I am. Fippy and I have had a row, although only half the parties involved seem to be aware of this fact, and it has driven me to acts of violence against my own wardrobe." I gestured at the garment in question, which Jeeves was brushing off with a disapproving eye.

"Most distressing, sir. I do hope your disagreement with Lord Filbert was not over anything of great significance."

I began to respond, but my faithful jaw, evidently one of the cleverer portions of my anatomy, seized up halfway through the first syllable. My reaction to Fippy's beastly proposal had been spurred by pure instinct, much as the Cro-Magnon might slay a menacing saber-toothed tortoise. But the thought was only just now filtering into my brain that Jeeves might welcome a change of employment. After all, he had been collecting the weekly envelope from the Wooster account for a number of years now, and might easily be pining for a change of pace. Enter Fippy, who, with his infinite funds and dearth of overbearing aunts, might well consent to take Jeeves on that safari in Siam – or was it Madagascar? – that he had recently been angling for. This was not a possibility to be tolerated. Clearly, the situation demanded serious thought. "Nothing of importance," I responded, looking him nearly in the eye. "The matter will sort itself out soon enough."

"Very good, sir." There was a distinct chilliness to his voice, no doubt due to the offenses I had perpetrated against my dinner jacket. He returned it to the wardrobe and smoothed its lapels. "Will there be anything else?"

I glanced about the room. My pyjamas were laid out neatly on the bed, and the tray on the end-table was well stocked with cognac and a fresh w and s. "No thank you, Jeeves, that'll be all."

"I perceive that you have injured yourself," he observed, nodding at my ailing shoulder. "If you do not object, I shall add an infusion of Epsom salts to your morning bath."

"Right-ho," I said, perhaps a little too enthusiastically. "That sounds absolutely bracing."

Jeeves offered me a terse bow and, without further comment, glided from the room.

I scooped up my glass of hearty wet stuff and toddled off to the balcony for a long, hard think. The full moon, the clear night, and the aggressively blooming wisteria made for the kind of romantic atmosphere to rekindle my gratitude that Madeline Bassett had finally tied the knot, eliminating the possibility of her popping up unexpectedly on a trellis to wax the absurd poetical about God's daisy chain.

But, pleasant as they were, the romantic environs did little to fortify the ailing spirit. That is to say, no amount of flowers and moonlight could have distracted me from the fear that Jeeves might soon be whisked away like a silver cow creamer in the thick of night, leaving Bertram in a state of loneliness and despair.

Though the icy grip of terror was firm and its fingers unpleasantly pointy, there was yet another beast swarming around the bosom that kept the hysterics at bay. I thought, at first, that it was the bulldog spirit of the Englishman who will never give up, but then a too-sudden movement brought a twinge to my shoulder, which recalled to mind young Fippy. Instantly, the beast within me reared and flashed its fangs. To be deprived of Jeeves would send a cloud of darkness over the length of my days, but, for whatever reason, to do so at the benefit of Fippy seemed a punishment unfit for Lucifer himself.

Perhaps my ire arose from the simple fact that Fippy had had the crust to treat Jeeves as a commodity, if that's the word I mean. I'm assuming that it has nothing to do with toilets. It was all well and good for chambermaids or underbutlers or, I dare say, even second cooks to get swapped about like a set of novelty teeth at a Headmaster's tea, but Jeeves was above such nonsense. Combine with this the preposterously high sum which Fippy was willing to pay, and the offer was practically insulting.

I paused, sensing a flaw in my logic. After all, Fippy had as much right to inquire after Jeeves' availability as I had to refuse it. And the second bit made no sense whatsoever. No, it hadn't been the proposal itself that had set me off. Rather, it had been Fippy's failure to appreciate the value of his prize. In the employ of a gent with not so much as a whiff of his most singular mental alacrity, Jeeves's potential would go criminally untapped and his frontal lobe would atrophy from neglect.

Of course, I had to admit that my valet was no more likely to neglect the contents of his cranium than I, having been stranded in the sweltering desert and deprived of all, might neglect a glistening gin and tonic that was thrust before my crusted eyes. And while Fippy's appreciation of Jeeves's genius was decidedly lacking, Jeeves no more required the praise and affirmation thereof than a deep-sea octopus might long for the morning dew. So what was it, precisely, that had bolstered the Wooster spirit to screech at his host like a dowager aunt misused?

I replayed the conversation in my head, as best as I could remember it, beginning with the memorable 'I say, your man, Jeeves, is something of a corker.' All was proceeding along merrily until I arrived at the part where Fippy described Jeeves as a 'sexy beast,' which statement caused me to furrow the brow with as close as I had ever come to naked fury. It was then that I read the writing on the wall, like Daniel at Belshazzar's feast - an incident I learned about while gearing up for that Scripture Knowledge prize I won when I was at school. Fippy didn't want Jeeves for his etiquette or his talents or his brains. He wanted Jeeves because he fancied him.

Well there was a fine act of hospitality. Who did Fippy think he was, taking a fancy to my manservant? The very thought of it made the Wooster temper positively boil. And the sheer number of social transgressions involved had the making of a scandal within a scandal within a scandal, like one of those queer dolls the Russians are so keen about.

The difference in their social standings was of little consequence to me, of course. Not with all the waitresses and chorus girls with whom my various chums and relations had shuffled down the aisle. Nor was I perturbed by their distinct similarity in gender. Liaisons of that breed were common enough at Oxford and even the later days at Eton. Why, I, myself, had once fostered a healthy appreciation for the well-groomed, noble youth, and spent many an afternoon on the sidelines of the rugby field, enjoying the spectacle of fit young men piling atop each other in sweaty, muddy heaps.

But it was an unwritten assumption that a fine, upstanding British lad should outgrow these dalliances of youth, his maturity marked by the pursuit of the more adult-leaning activity of marriage. Fippy, it seemed, had neglected to progress to this stage. Now one might argue that I, having spent the majority of my adult life fleeing from the holy state of m. as if it wore a hooded robe and toted a sickle, was hardly in a position to point an accusing f., but my matrimonial habits were not germane to the question at hand. For it was not I who was angling to grope and/or fondle the household staff of a close, personal friend.

And while the lens of experience bade me to look forgivingly on Fippy's nostalgic proclivities, I was more than a little certain that Jeeves would not be so generous in his allowances, particularly considering the inadvisable direction in which said proclivities had been directed. I had a good mind to call for the car and flee to the metropolis post haste, freeing us both from this degenerate valet-fancier.

But just as I prepared to ring for Jeeves to pack my trunk, I hit upon a brainy scheme. Were I to lug Jeeves back to town, leaving him blissfully ignorant of the peril he might have suffered at the hands of the Northumberland menace, said menace might seize the opportunity to strike, perhaps even going so far as to offer the hundred thousand pounds to Jeeves himself. Now Jeeves, being of sound mind, would inevitably lap up the proffered oof, only to find himself in the unfortunate employ of a googly-eyed letch. And, by the code, I was bound and determined not to permit this to happen. The only conceivable course of action would be to remain behind so that Jeeves might witness for himself the salacious gazes which the leering Fippy was no doubt constantly directing his way. Once thusly enlightened, Jeeves was sure to enfold the Wooster frame in a manly embrace of gratitude, and promise never again to consider abandoning the nest in favor of fey peerage who just happened to be in possession of a castle and a first class booking to Uruguay.

This tactic was not for my benefit, dash it, but for Jeeves' own happiness and virtue. I toddled off to bed, deeming myself, as Jeeves might say, the very picture of altruism.

 

* * *

 

I awoke the following morning feeling positively chuffed. Jeeves was shimmering about the room, right as rain, though he did still seem somewhat bent out of shape over the dinner jacket. Regardless, the birds were singing, the flowers were odiferous, and the sunlight was spilling across the room as if it wanted to crawl into bed with me. Once Jeeves departed, I shuffled over to enjoy the hot bath he had drawn - complete, I noted, with Epsom salts - and contrive how best to expose the existence of Fippy's not-so-secret predilection.

When I arrived at breakfast, however, it seemed that Fippy was doing a dashed fine job of revealing said predilection on his own. He was decked out in the most appallingly tight riding pants I had ever laid eyes upon, and he had situated himself quite deliberately so that he sat in the precise spot where the sunlight most prominently fell across his golden hair. He looked nauseatingly angelic. Furthermore, he was venturing to astonish Jeeves with his worldly nature by regaling him with anecdotes.

"...and the best bit is," the blighter was chortling as I entered the room, "it wasn't until he got back to the docks that the coxswain realized the bowman had been replaced by a baboon!" He dissolved, here, into a fit of unmerited laughter.

"Indeed, my lord," said Jeeves. "Most amusing."

"Yes, I thought you'd like that one," Fippy said, blinking back tears of boyish glee. As he sat up it was revealed that, expert though he might be at smuggling lower primates into regattas, the breadth of his knowledge did not include a familiarity with mirrors. His shirt collar was awry, half reaching up as if to crawl into his ear, half squashed within the depths of his riding coat. Said overgarment was in no better shape, the lie of its collar calling to mind a flattened-out dachshund being worn as a stole. Naturally, Jeeves spotted these flaws like a ravenous vulture.

"If I may, my lord." He reached out to fastidiously correct the lie of both collars, finishing by brushing a firm hand down each lapel.

Fippy beamed in ecstasy, and it occurred to me that he had deliberately misdressed himself in order to provoke just such a response. Far from the witless oaf he outwardly appeared, I was beginning to suspect that Fippy was some kind of devious Machiavellian strategist. I cleared my throat to announce my presence before his behavior degenerated any further.

"Oh, Bertie!" he exclaimed, leaping from his chair with calculated innocence. "I didn't see you arrive. Come have some breakfast."

He took my elbow and led me to the buffet, taking great pains to point out that the eggs were eggs, the potatoes were potatoes, and the long strips of bacon-like objects were, in fact, bacon. Once I had loaded up my plate, he offered me the cherubic chair in which he had been sitting, demonstrating to Jeeves his deep-seated sense of gallantry.

"Jeeves and I were just having the most smashing conversation," he enthused. "Weren't we, Jeeves?"

"Oh, yes, sir. Lord Filbert was kind enough to entertain me with some of his adventures at University. Apparently, he was quite the practical joker."

'Aha!' I thought. There was Fippy's fatal error. "You'd better be careful, Fippy, old bean. Jeeves looks upon tricksters and their ilk with a stern, reproving eye. Your riotous tales may have turned him against you."

"On the contrary, sir," Jeeves interjected. "Lord Filbert's jests were of a most benign and, I must say, humorous nature. Nothing like the inadvisable deeds perpetrated by other young persons of your acquaintance."

Fippy giggled in triumph at this remark, while Jeeves turned on heel and hoofed it from the general vicinity, no doubt in order to indulge his remorse at having been caught delighting in the company of another master.

When he had finished gazing moonily at my valet's retreating form, Fippy heaved a lovelorn sigh. "I say, you haven't changed your mind about Jeeves, have you? About letting him go, I mean."

"Absolutely not."

"He really is a delight, you know."

"Yes. I realize." Such terseness of reply was not normally within my nature, but one must challenge the limits of etiquette itself in the heroic defence of one's valet.

"I see," Fippy replied, his lower lip jutting forward in a pout of disappointment. "Ah well, such as it is. I say, have you seen the new show at the Palace? It's a corker!"

"Hmm?" My mouth was full of eggs and my brain of paranoid imaginings in re: the swiftness with which the topic of Jeeves' masterly allegiance had been dropped. I resolved to remain on my guard. The genius behind that convincingly vacant gape no doubt had plentiful schemes up his cunning sleeve.

"It's a corker, I said. You really ought to see it if you haven't. A real corker."

"Ah, yes," I responded absently. "A corker."

"Yes, absolutely. It's called 'Mrs. Sir', you see, and it's about this chap named Skip or Biff – or was it Algernon? Anyway, the chappie's not very keen on marriage, you see, but his aunts are absolutely mad for it. So they tell him he has to find himself a wife or they'll cut off his allowance. Are you following me so far? Not too confusing, I hope."

"Yes, yes," I said, prodding distractedly at a particularly unstabbable potato. "I get the g of the p."

"So in order to avoid the ball and chain without sacrificing his funds, the chappie has his valet don the old corset and petticoat and pretend to be his wife."

As you may imagine, this little tidbit brought about a distinct elevation of the brow. Was this jabbering tale an omen of the sinister fate this villain had in mind for Jeeves? Would Jeeves, mere hours after relocating to Northumberland, find himself being crammed into lacy negligees and fishnet stockings? I narrowed my eyes into an ominous glare.

Fippy, utterly oblivious, prattled on. "So in the second act, the chappie and his 'wife' get invited down to one of the aunts' estates in Devonshire – or was it Kent? And there's this ripping sequence where the valet has to keep swapping outfits when the aunt invites the Cardinal for tea. But then what happens, you see, is that the chappie and the valet fall in love."

At that moment, I resembled nothing so much as a cupid at the center of a Venetian fountain. The tea that had previously occupied my mouth shot out in an elegant arc and made an unpleasant spattering sound upon the French doors across the room.

"I say, Bertie!" the genius exclaimed, "good show! That kind of distance would win you the bronze trophy at least!"

I, however, had no mind for club prizes. "You said the chappie fell in love with his valet?"

"Righto. Didn't I tell you that it was a corker?"

It was at this juncture that Jeeves elected to remanifest in the dining room.

"Jeeves," I announced, certain that Fippy's taste in theatre would expose him for the incubus he was. "Fippy was just telling me about his favorite play. Apparently it's about a chappie – with whom Fippy seems to sympathize not a little – who falls madly in love with his valet."

"Yes, sir, I believe you are referring to 'Mrs. Sir', the newest fare at the Palace. I am to understand that the second act finale, 'I'd Like To Kiss You, Sir, But It's Time To Serve Tea,' is immensely popular. I believe the libretto is partially intended to be a musical homage to the unusual courtship of Miss Viola and Lord Orsino from Mr. William Shakespeare's 'Twelfth Night or What You Will', in which a master falls in love with his manservant only to discover that his beloved has merely been masquerading as a man, and is, in fact, of the female persuasion."

"Wait," I said, blinking in perplexity. "The valet turns out to be a she?"

"Oh, yes," said Fippy. "Didn't I mention that? It happens in the third act. One of the aunts catches the chappie in the arms of the valet and cuts him off. But then the valet rends asunder her blouse to reveal the shocking truth and all is forgiven. The whole production ends with a proper wedding at St. James's. Like I said, a corker!"

"A corker indeed, sir."

"Oh, I say!" Fippy exclaimed suddenly, gasping and flopping his limbs about like a beached halibut with asthma. "Jeeves! Can you play the piano?"

"I will confess to a moderate ability in that arena, my lord, yes."

"Do you think you could poke out the chorus of, 'I'd Like to Kiss You, Sir'?"

"I will certainly endeavor to satisfy, my lord, although I might suggest that Mr. Wooster, whose skill at the instrument far exceeds my own, would be a superior choice for..."

"No, no, Jeeves, it must be you! Come along!" And at that, he clasped Jeeves by the hand and led him from the room, with nary a thought for poor abandoned Bertram. I was left staring into a plate of cold eggs and bacon-like strips of bacon atop a tea-splattered tablecloth, lamenting that I had ignored my initial instinct to flee.

 

** *

 

Scarcely five minutes had passed before I managed to collect myself and follow the tinkling of ivories to the conservatory, but when I arrived, the appalling sight that greeted me nearly induced me to shield my eyes. There were Jeeves and Fippy, side by side at the piano bench, belting out a frightful (though admittedly jaunty) duet in alternate lines:  
_  
I'd like to kiss you, sir, but I must tip my hat.  
I'd like to kiss you, Jeeves, and strip off your cravat.  
I must not kiss you, sir, my standing's much too low.  
Your feudal spirit, Jeeves, it makes my breeches grow!  
_

Fippy trampled all over Jeeves' subsequent line to say, "You know, I'm not sure I quite understand that bit about the growing breeches. Has the valet been washing them improperly?"

"That is certainly one interpretation, sir..."

Again, I cleared my throat, a method of annunciation that was becoming an onerous necessity.

"Did you hear us, Bertie?" Fippy practically squealed. "Isn't that song a corker?"

"It is rather catchy," I allowed, with not a little coolness.

"And wasn't it clever, how I substituted the valet's name with Jeeves's in the lyrics? What was his name, Jeeves? Was it Shepherdsby?"

"I believe it was Jones, my lord. Hence the convenience of isosyllabic substitution."

"Yes, of course, of course." He turned towards me, joyfully bearing his shark-like teeth. "Isn't it a..."

"A corker," I supplied. "Yes, I know. Jeeves, might I have a word?"

"Of course, sir."

He followed me into the hall, where I rounded on him with an energy that, I believe, surprised even him. "I would like to know, Jeeves, your opinion of this Fippy Phipps-Fotheringay-Phipps."

"He seems a most amiable young gentleman."

"And have you not noticed anything peculiar about his behavior and/or person?"

"No, sir. He is, perhaps, unusually friendly considering his standing, but..."

"'Friendly'?!" I exclaimed. "Is that what you call it?"

"Sir?"

"Never mind." I eyed Jeeves warily, endeavoring to determine whether he was uncharacteristically gormless or a willing seductee. The waters, as they say, were crying out to be tested, and I decided to undertake a fresh and wily tack. "I have recently noticed that Fippy is a handsome sort of fellow. Do you agree with this assessment?"

"It is not my habit to opine upon the aesthetic attributes of my superiors, sir, but as you mention it, yes. It has often been remarked at the Junior Ganymede Club that, despite his wealth, his lordship's physical beauty is paramount among his personal assets."

"Aha!" I exclaimed, though the triumph brought little solace. "So you confess that you find him attractive."

"He is pleasing to the eye," Jeeves hedged. "Like Michaelangelo's David."

This remark was plainly intended to confuse and befuddle me, for I found myself inadvertently saying, "Very well, Jeeves. Carry on."

With a bow, Jeeves returned to the piano, at which point Fippy rose and stood behind him, under pretence of pointing at some sheet music. He braced his hands on either side of his intended prey, and leaned into him with such proximity that it appeared as though Jeeves was wearing him like an opera cape. As I took my disgruntled leave, I was pursued down the corridor by the refrains of the salty final verse:  
_  
I'm sorely tempted, sir. Why must you persevere?  
I can't resist you, Jeeves. Come, let me lick your ear!  
Your kisses thrill me, sir. I can't keep love at bay.  
Hie to my bedroom, Jeeves. We'll love the night away!  
_

* * *

 

It should not surprise you in the least to learn that dinner that evening was a markedly awkward affair. Fippy droned on and on about Jeeves' apparently limitless musical talents until impatience and the love of truth behooved me to interject.

"I hope you realize, Fippy, that to praise Jeeves solely on the basis of his prowess at the pianoforte is to undersell him substantially. It is a slap in the face of his mettle, as it were."

"You're right of course," said Fippy with a wistful sigh. "He's also got fantastic hair. And those eyes of his – they're so dreamy!"

"'Dreamy,' say you. 'Pah,' say I."

"Pah?"

"Pah," I repeated. "That is to say, pah!"

"Why do you keep saying 'pah'?"

"I say this, my dear chap, because dreamy or no, the eyes are the window to the soul, as they say."

"Who says?"

He caught me there. "The poet Burns, I imagine. And several of his brainy cronies as well."

"Ah."

"As I say, the eyes are the w. to the s., and Jeeves's soul is one that can outthink Sherlock Holmes, Nero Wolfe, and a panel of German engineers with half of his brain whilst preparing a plate of kippers and toast with the other."

"Golly."

"Golly is right, old prune. Jeeves is more than just an impeccable valet with perfect pitch. He also has wit. He has sagacity. He has..."

"He has the most magnificent bum I've ever seen in my life."

Though commendable for his wish to participate in the activity of listing Jeeves's merits, Fippy had obviously lost track of the point. And, in fact, all concept of propriety. It was one thing to take a fancy to another chap's manservant. It could happen to anybody. And complimentary remarks as to the appearance, grooming, and, yes, even dreaminess of said valet's eyes might easily be dismissed as the bleatings of an innocent lamb. But I was brought up, and I believe rightly so, to believe that bums are never an appropriate topic of dinner conversation. Especially servants' bums. And especially especially when said bum-themed prattle is accompanied by an obscene, albeit unconscious, licking of the lips.

I decided to give Fippy the opportunity to rescind his remark. "What?!"

"His bum," Fippy repeated, slowly and clearly as if addressing a simpleton. "Haven't you noticed? You could bounce a sovereign off of it."

"The only thing of Jeeves's I've ever had occasion to bounce a sovereign off of is a well made bed."

"Oh, yes? And how did it go?"

"Smashingly. The coin remains lodged in the ceiling to this day."

"I say, that's a corking story, Bertie," Fippy offered, mustering barely a trace of sincerity, "but I must say that a bedsheet is not quite as exciting as Jeeves's bum. Unless... Was it Jeeves's bed?"

"No, it was my bed."

"Was Jeeves on it at the time?"

"Of course not! You must think very little of Jeeves's capabilities as a valet if you think he'd go crawling around atop a freshly made bed."

Fippy frowned, drawing the old brows together in the cogitation of bedsheets and bums. "I'm sorry, Bertie, but I don't think I follow your point."

"My point," I related with a sigh, "is that Jeeves would not approve of all this belaboring of bums and dreamy eyes. His intellect soars above, as it were."

"What you mean to say is that you don't think he fancies me. That is, he's too brainy a cove to consort with the likes of the fool Fippy. He feels that I'm as dim as a dwindling bulb."

I stammered a bit, not expecting him to cut so bluntly to the q. It pained the heart to look at him all droopy-eyed and sad, like a puppy that had been kicked twice by its owner, bitten by its mother, and then trod heedlessly upon a mousetrap in its subsequent flight. Ignoring for a moment his unfortunate taste in romantic fixations, Fippy was a good egg, little deserving of deep-seated torment and woe. "Now, don't be glum, old fruit. I never meant to suggest anything of the kind. Jeeves has never said a word against you."

This assurance brightened Fippy's eyes like a kinderling on Christmas morn. "I say, that's a relief. I thought he'd been rather receptive, you see, and I'd hate to think I had read him wrong on that point."

My recent generosity of spirit became immediately a subject of regret. "How do you mean, 'receptive'?"

"Oh, you know. This and that. Not to mention the whatnot. Something about the looks and the posture. And, of course, a dash of the whatzit about the eyes."

"Ah. It was the whatzit that convinced you, eh?"

"Oh, rather." He beamed at me expectantly, as if I should be absolutely delighted to have him seduce my valet out from under me. That is, metaphorically speaking. After a moment, he took on a sort of awkward air. "So Jeeves has mentioned me, then? What did he say?"

I hesitated, not wishing to encourage inconvenient hopes. "He said that you were amiable."

"Amiable. That's good, right?"

"I would assume so."

"And what about looks? Does he think I'm handsome at all?"

A lesser man than myself might have prevaricated at this point. "I don't recollect his precise words," I replied, "but apparently you remind him of an Italian chap of his acquaintance. Goes by the name of Dave."

"Dave?"

"Yes. As I recall, he's a bit peaky and hasn't got any arms." I wasn't altogether certain that Michaelangelo's David was the one with no arms – all these objects d'art look the same as far as I'm concerned - but I concluded that the description was sufficiently apt to qualify.

Fippy was at a loss for response, so I charged on ahead. "I think you should understand, old fruit, that Jeeves is not one to be swayed by gobs of cash or matinee looks. His passion lies in the defence of the helpless, hopeless, and feckless, and he looks to his master as a sort of combination partner and Boswell. Take me, for example. Since almost the very first moment of our acquaintance, Jeeves and I have been coming to the aid of troubled souls, un-wronging the wronged, re-pilfering the pilfered, and de-Honoria-Glossopping the Honoria-Glossoped. We're like a pair of super-heroes from an American comic book."

"Really?"

"Oh, absolutely." I sensed a promising uncertainty in Fippy's tone as he pondered whether elbowing into our happy existence – Jeeves's and mine, that is – would be quite as easy as he had thought. I decided that the thing to do was to emphasize our bond or rapport by injecting a sense of history and loyalty into the proceedings.

Flinging myself wholeheartedly into this gambit, I spent the remainder of the meal reminiscing over the many times that Jeeves and I had come to the rescue of some poor, desperate soul. Unfortunately, the objective recounting of these tales tended to paint me as a half-witted buffoon and Jeeves as the heroic knight riding in to save the day. He came across more like a wet nurse to me than a constant companion and chum, and, while arguably accurate, this depiction did not convey the picture of comradeship and devotion for which I had striven. Worse yet, this only seemed to sweeten Jeeves's attractiveness to Fippy, who was coming around on the appeal of brains, despite the pinkness and the sliminess and what. By the end of dinner, my efforts had only served to bolster his determination to claim Jeeves for his one and only.

 

* * *

 

As a form of civic protest, I played only three games of billiards with Fippy before retiring for the evening. A Wooster never permits a slight to persist unpunished. When I reached my room, Jeeves was already bustling about, laying out my nightclothes. "I take it you had a delightful day," I said, with no little pique.

"It was most agreeable, sir," came the guarded response.

"And have you any further remarks upon the character of young Fippy?"

"As I noted this morning, sir, he is a most personable and attentive gentleman."

"Personable!'" I retorted with awe. "Attentive!" It was time to lift whatever veils persisted to obscure his vision. "Have you expended all remnants of your observational skills? The lout is positively besotted!"

"Sir?"

"I refer to the fact that Fippy is patently in love with you."

"With respect, sir, I do not believe that 'in love' is the element of vocabulary you are seeking. 'Covetous,' perhaps is the word more appropriate to the situation."

"'Covetous,' my ass," I shot back, the harshness of language producing no little severity of response from the faithful v. "He desires you with the intensity of a shipwrecked pirate presented with fresh strawberries and cream."

"Indeed, sir. I have observed this fact."

"And it does not trouble you?"

"On the contrary, sir, I find Lord Filbert's attentions quite flattering."

I could scarcely believe what I was hearing. "Am I to assume, then, that you are charmed and delighted to have been appointed Lord Fippy's preferred pin-up bippy?"

Jeeves' expression grew dour. "I confess that I am not fond of the term, nor do I feel that it suits my dignity to be associated therewith. However, I have always subscribed to the philosophy that a compliment is a compliment. And while praise might be more gratifying when it originates from a particularly desired source, any form it should elect to adopt ought to be met with graciousness and humility."

"Well, your philosophy is all well and good, Jeeves, but do you realize that said flatterer offered only last night to buy you off me as if you were some ancient victrola or tea tray?"

"I was aware of his lordship's offer, yes."

The chilliness of his response unseated me. "Blast it, Jeeves, if you knew of this affront, why didn't you tell me?"

 

"You inferred last night that the matter was of little importance. It was not my place to instigate its resurgence into your attention."

I winced, cursing myself for having again underestimated Jeeves' network of informants. Nevertheless, he seemed intriguingly unperturbed by Fippy's lascivious intents.

"Now let me ask you, Jeeves, and I expect an honest response."

"Of course, sir."

"Do you want to swap me in for Fippy? Because if you believe that thence lies the path to true happiness, I shall not stand in your way. But if you do elect to send me back to the store, I'd advise you first to rankle all the oof that Fippy's at liberty to spare. The man is absolutely desperate for you, you know."

"Yes, sir, I am aware."

"So tell me, my good man, is it your most fervent wish to garner said riches and spend the rest of your years ensconced in Northumberland?"

"Most assuredly not, sir."

"So you do not intend to reenact Act Three of 'Mrs. Sir' beneath this very roof?"

"Sir, I believe you will find that I am a genuine specimen of the male gender, and therefore ill-equipped to expose my generous bosom at a dinner party to the shock and amazement of all."

"What's that?"

"The culmination of Act Three, sir."

"Oh, rot. Act Two, then. The bit where the valet falls in love with the chappie while he's still a man. The valet, that is. And the chappie too, for that matter."

"You are asking if I expect that such an entanglement will transpire between myself and his lordship?"

"Yes, of course that's what I'm asking."

"Then the answer is no, sir. I do not anticipate such an eventuality."

I heaved a hearty sigh of relief. "Thank you, Jeeves. You have lifted a great weight from my mind."

"I am glad to hear it, sir. Will there be anything else?"

"No, Jeeves, that will be all."

He bowed dutifully and made to depart, but he paused at the door to offer some characteristically Jeeves-like advice. "If I may be so bold, sir, I might suggest that you cogitate upon what, precisely, is the origin of your agitation surrounding Lord Filbert's advances towards me."

"I have cogitated, Jeeves, I have cogitated at great length, and the answer is dashed obvious. Fippy tried to woo you away from me, and I didn't like it. I leapt to the fore like a lioness whose cubs were in danger of being trampled by a wildebeest or gnu."

"So you believe, then, that the fear of losing my services was the sole grounds for your consternation?"

"Yes, well... I say, of course. I mean, what else could it be?"

He coughed in that rummy way of his.

"Have you something to add, Jeeves?"

"It is not my place, sir."

"Well that bally well never stopped you before."

I could tell he didn't like that remark, but he graciously let it go. "Sir, there are certain legs of life's journey that must be traveled alone."

"You don't mean to say that you are leaving me, after all?"

"No, sir, I was speaking spiritually. I intended to aver that I could not assist you in deciphering the motivations behind your recent emotional turmoil."

"Ah. I see. No chance of a hint, what?"

I'm afraid not, sir, although I would suggest that you think in terms of the psychology of the individual."

"Aha! The Jeeves Procedure, tried and true."

"Yes, sir, but in this instance you will be directing the method of study upon yourself. I advise you to make note of the various emotional states you have undergone over the past few days. Therein, I might theorize, lies the crux of the matter."

Now as far as I was concerned, this was all beginning to seem a bit thick. "I say, Jeeves," I said. "This is all beginning to seem a bit thick."

"Indeed, sir, but I am confident that you are up to the task for the sake of the reward which is likely to follow. Sweet are the uses of adversity, which like the toad, ugly and venomous, wears yet a precious jewel in his head."

"I say, that's a good one. Your own?"

"No, sir."

"Shakespeare, then?"

"Precisely, sir. Will there be anything else?"

I sighed and waved him away airily. "No, no. If you insist that this project must fall exclusively into the regime of Woosters, with a complete lack of Jeeveses, then my hands, as they say, are tied. I shall brave the venomous toad without assistance."

"Very good, sir. Good night." And with these words, he shimmered away.

Plain and simple, the situation was rum. Not only did I have to contend with the murky etiquette of accepting the hospitality of a man who has tried and failed to seduce my valet, but now Jeeves was suspiciously keen to bung yours truly down the solemn road of introspection. It was an understanding between us that such activities were to be avoided at all cost, and yet here he was speaking of feelings and spiritual journeys, such as might burble forth from an elderly Frenchwoman in a risqué musical comedy.

I well understood, or at least thought I understood, why Fippy was at the top of my list of Chums Who Had Done Me Wrong, his attempted usurping of Jeeves surpassing even Tuppy Glossop's beastly scheme to force me into the club pool in full evening wear. Nevertheless, Jeeves was generally correct about this sort of thing, so I knit the brow and sat down for a longish think.

How had I felt when Fippy first offered to take Jeeves off my hands, as it were? Panicked. A perfectly natural response. And when I deduced that Fippy's interest in Jeeves was something beyond the detached admiration of a prospective employer? This one was trickier. There was affront, of course, and a wisp of something else. Something indefinable. At breakfast, I had felt a heated acrimony towards Fippy for looking so handsome while striving to monopolize Jeeves' attention, and in the conservatory I had felt betrayed by Jeeves' patent willingness to be monopolized by someone other than me. For the rest of the day I had felt sulky until Fippy's lewd remarks at dinner sent me into a haze of agitated desperation.

Panicked, affronted, indefinable, acrimonious, betrayed, sulky, agitated and desperate. Seeing no pattern or obvious conclusion from these reflected emotions, I took a piece of paper from the writing desk and scribbled the words upon it, hoping that the answer might be kind enough to leap at me from the page. Sadly, no inspiration was forthcoming.

At length I gave up, concluding that the answer was likely to involve some sort of complicated anagram of the words I had written. As Jeeves was so much better at that sort of thing, I folded up the paper and set it on the bedside table, resolving to present it to him for unraveling in the morning. I had faced the ugly and venomous toad, and would leave it to Jeeves, as it were, to pluck the jewel.

 

* * *

 

My efforts of cogitation, it seemed, had come at no small price to the Wooster spirit. By the time I awoke, morning had long since been admitted to the room, and the sun had already risen beyond the view of my window. I had vague recollections of Jeeves shimmering through at some earlier hour and attempting to rouse me, but these urgings had gone unheeded. I hastily abluted and dressed, and shuffled down to the breakfast room, which I found utterly devoid of anyone eager to educate me as to the existence, appearance and edibility of muffins.

The castle was eerily quiet as I breakfasted and afterwards as I ambled about its drafty halls. Jeeves and Fippy were nowhere to be found. I began to fear that latter had whisked former away for a box picnic or berry picking or some such other allegedly romantic pursuit. I encountered them at last in Fippy's study, just in time to bear witness to a ghastly display and, I dare say, swoop in in knightly fashion to perform a daring rescue.

Fippy had my valet in distress backed up against a bookcase. "You must permit me, my dearest Jeeves, to express the ardency of my love!"

"No, sir, you must not. Such behavior is not proper."

"What care I for propriety when such a sweet fruit is within my grasp?" He reached out to cup Jeeves' cheek, but the hearty fellow ducked away. Fippy, dash him, pursued the poor man with the agility of a jaguar or puma.

"Sir, we mustn't," said Jeeves, as convincing a refusal as I had ever encountered. By way of punctuation, he laid his hand against Fippy's chest, as if to shove him away, but the villain countered this tactic by covering the hand with his own and stepping forward until the pair was practically nose to nose.

"If I do not kiss you this very moment, Jeeves, I believe I shall die."

He leaned in, here, to do the deed and Bertram sprang into action. I sprinted across the room and flung myself between them, sending Fippy staggering backwards and, unfortunately, squashing Jeeves rather violently against the bookcase.

"What do you think you're doing, you barmy git?" I shouted. "I've a mind to report your philandering ways to the media, striking fear into the hearts of manservants across the British Isles!"

Fippy's inexplicable reaction to this threat was to clap his hands and laugh with utter delight. "We must have been really good, Jeeves, what? I daresay that old Bertie's sold."

"It would seem so, my lord."

I felt a gentle shove from behind as Jeeves extricated himself from his entrapment.

"Would someone kindly explain to me what the bally hell is going on?"

"We were rehearsing a play, sir."

"Rehearsing a play? I must say, Jeeves, I am disappointed in you. That is the oldest fictitious alibi for wrongdoing ever dreamed up by man. In fact, if I recall, old Adam and Eve attempted to pull the wool over on God with just such an excuse after that nasty apple business. Well, God was too keen for that, Jeeves, and so, too, am I."

"I say, I'm sorry to disappoint you, old bean, but your man is telling the truth," said Fippy, leaping feet first into the rain puddle of deceit. "That was a scene from 'Mrs. Sir', that corking play at the Palace. I sent away for the script thingummy a few weeks ago and this morning it finally arrived."

"And while we are on the subject of the script," Jeeves interjected, handing me said object so that I might peruse it in consideration of my grievous error, "might I take the opportunity to remind your lordship that my character is meant to be described as 'such sweet fruit' not 'such a sweet fruit'? The meanings of the phrases are subtly different."

"Right-ho, Jeeves. Sorry. I'll try to remember next time."

"Next time? You don't mean that you intend to continue rehearsing this scene ad infinitum?" I glowered at the page, where the stage directions described how the chappie was to plant a passionate wet one upon the less-than-reluctant valet, followed by the dropping of the second act curtain amid uproarious applause.

"Rehearsal is a vital part of the artistic process, Bertie."

"So be it, but why must Jeeves be slated to play this promiscuous valet?"

Fippy rolled his eyes at my stupidity, an act which stung the Wooster ego sharp and deep. "It's called typecasting, old crumpet. I say, you're not too up on the theatre, are you?"

"Yes, but the valet character is actually a female. You've got at least fifteen score maids and sundry womenfolk scuttling about. Why not cast one of them in the title role."

"Oh, none of them could play a convincing valet."

"I dare say any one of them would do better as a valet than Jeeves would as a woman."

"On the contrary, sir, during my school days I appeared as Yum Yum in a production of The Mikado to more than favorable critical acclaim."

I whirled 'round on him, all astonishment. "Do you mean to tell me that you actually want to participate in this foolishness?"

"I will confess to having found the temporary change in duties rather enjoyable, sir." Here I cast a suspicious eye upon the dashing Fippy. "But if you harbor objections to my doing so, I certainly shall adhere to your wishes."

Now here was a dilemma if one ever existed. Was I to disappoint Jeeves or suffer by in silence as he was manhandled and drooled upon by Fippy for the remainder of the week-end? There was only one sensible solution, of course. I would simply have to trust that the onslaught of Fippy's furiously pitched woo would fail to sway its intended mark.

"No, no, Jeeves. I know better than to deprive you of such little pleasures that warm the heart. Carry on, if you will."

"If I might make a suggestion, sir, if the current casting displeases you, you might suggest an alternate recourse."

"Yes, Jeeves, but we've just established that you must play the valet."

"I was thinking of the other role, sir. The role of Lord John Bristow-Pemberley."

"Who?"

"The character to whom you and Lord Filbert preferentially refer as 'the chappie.'"

"Eh?"

"The individual who kisses the valet, sir. I perceive that you harbor some objections to Lord Filbert's portrayal thereof."

"What's that? Oh, right. I say, quite." I confronted our host with shoulders reared. "Fippy, I shan't have you kissing my valet."

He blinked vacantly. "Why not?"

"Because it isn't right, dash it."

"Come now, Bertie, it's just a play."

The old noggin spun about wildly in search of an ironclad rebuttal. "I realize that it's just a play, but I dare say that if anyone gets to kiss Jeeves, it ought to be me. That is, right. Rather."

Fippy's eyebrows flew up, exposing the sad truth that my arguments were not quite so logical upon utterance as they had seemed while rattling around the bean. Nevertheless, he gestured at Jeeves with a deferential air. "Splendid," he said. "This will give me the chance to direct. Let's take it from the bit just before the kiss."

In a daze as to what I had gotten myself into, I turned towards Jeeves. I was at a complete loss as to where to put my hands and feet.

His expression was impassive. "We mustn't, sir."

"No?" I must confess I felt the old chest fall hollow in a kind of disappointment. "Well, if you think it's for the best. Fippy, it seems that Jeeves would prefer to kiss you."

"That was certainly not my intended meaning, sir. I was merely delivering my line."

"Eh?"

"From the script." He indicated the point on the page which read, 'JONES: [coyly] We mustn't, sir.'

"Ah. Yes. Right-ho. I'll take it from my line, then, shall I?"

"Yes, sir."

I squinted down at the page and burbled out, "If I do not kiss you this very moment, Jones, I believe I shall die." At which point I reached the juicy bit of the stage direction and, in attempting to follow it, lurched towards Jeeves, causing him to flinch backwards in alarm. I settled my nerves, determined to take better gauge of the distance on my second attempt, and closed in, pecking him briefly on the lips.

It wasn't a good kiss by any means, what with the lurching and the stiffness and the squashing of noses, but it was an admirable first attempt. And, I dare say, better me than Fippy.

Speaking of same, our intrepid director was less than delighted by this display. "No, no, no," he exclaimed, shaking his head in a mixture of anger and dismay, "that won't do at all. You looked as if a fly had landed on his face and you were attempting to squash it with your lips."

"Dash it, Fippy..."

"Try it again," he barked, sounding not un-aunt-like in his tone, "and this time, get it right."

I turned towards Jeeves with a miserable expression, feeling rather overwhelmed by the pressure to perform.

"If I might offer some advice, sir, the scene might fare better if you concentrated upon immersing yourself into the role. Try to imagine, for example, that you are a wealthy young gentleman, long disinterested in love, who has come to depend on his valet to the extent that he cannot imagine a day without him. The valet has provided you with all the caretaking and companionship that one would desire out of a partner in life, and now, through a collusion of unusual circumstances, you have come to realize that this gentleman's gentleman might come to satisfy your baser needs as well." He prefaced this last bit with the little cough that generally accompanied any remark with a whiff of impropriety.

"I dare say it's a stretch, Jeeves, but I'll certainly give it a whirl."

"Very good, sir."

I squeezed my eyes closed and imagined the lot, faintly aware of Fippy's plaintive objections. "I say, Jeeves, am I the director or aren't I?"

"Forgive my presumption, sir, I did not intend to undermine your authority. I was merely offering some advice to a fellow actor."

"Ah, is that all it was? Good, then, jolly good. You in character yet, Bertie?"

I opened my eyes, quite astonished to discover that getting into said character was far less of a leap than I had initially assumed. And as Jeeves stood before me, looking all proper and brainy and sympathetic to my plight, I found that the bit about the 'baser needs' was particularly easy to emulate.

"Right," said Fippy, "let's go back to the bit before the kiss."

"We mustn't, sir," Jeeves recited, arching an eyebrow in what appeared to be a hint of invitation.

I stammered a bit, and had to look down at the page to recall my line. When I looked up again, the mere hint of a half-smile upon Jeeves' lips nearly undid me. "If I do not kiss you this very moment, Jeeves, I believe I shall die," I said, and I meant it.

Delving fully into the moment, I sailed forward and gathered him into my arms, planting the Kiss to End All Kisses upon his faithful lips. Said kiss ignited a surprisingly delightful sequence of responses in the Wooster form, not the least of which was a series of bursts of light behind the eyelids. When I felt Jeeves' arms slide across my back and tighten the embrace, these lights increased significantly in frequency and brightness.

The next thing I knew, I was regaining consciousness and Jeeves was helping me towards a nearby sofa.

"Oh, that was marvelous," Fippy exclaimed, applauding heartily. "Simply marvelous. And the swoon at the end was a corking touch, although I think that perhaps Jeeves, being the female of the duo, ought to be the one to do the fainting."

"An excellent suggestion," said Jeeves, materializing at my side to press a tumbler of scotch whiskey into my shaking hands. "We shall endeavor to make the change in future performances."

"This is just corking. If we practice all afternoon, we can have the scene ready by evening. Mother and her friends are due back from town, you know, and I'm sure they'd absolutely rave about a spot of theatre after dinner. This is so exciting! I must inform the staff!"

At this, Fippy flitted from the room, leaving Jeeves and me to our own devices.

"Dash it, Jeeves. I know I volunteered for this, but I have no desire to prance about in fancy dress before the Lady Phipps-Fotheringay-Phipps and her assorted hangers-on."

"Nor do I, sir."

"So whatever shall be done?"

"I would suggest that the expedient dispatch of a telegram from town summoning us back to attend to some fictitious family emergency would be the most advisable course of action."

"An excellent notion, Jeeves. Spot on, as usual. Can you make it happen?"

"I have already taken the liberty of arranging it, sir."

"I say, you're sharper than ever! Do you mean to say that you predicted ahead of time the urgent need to escape from Northumberland and its potty brood of P-F-Ps?"

"I did anticipate such an eventuality, yes, sir."

"You are an absolute wonder, Jeeves. A tribute to geniuses among men. And, I dare say, quite a capable acting coach. Why, as we performed that scene, I felt as if I really was a chappie that had fallen in love with his valet."

Jeeves sighed, embodying a degree of wearied frustration which he hadn't expressed since the fortnight three years earlier during which I insisted upon wearing rose-colored spats. "It is a technique known as 'method acting,' invented by the acclaimed Russian director, Stanislavsky," he explained, "which is predicated upon the ability of the actor to establish a strong empathy for the character he is portraying."

"Aha! That explains it." I nodded in relief, grateful to have a rational justification for the passion that had so suddenly blossomed in my breast with regards to the dutiful v. "So, it'll wear off then?"

"Wear off, sir?"

"Yes, wear off. That is, this 'strong empathy' of which you speak. It will sidle away given a sufficient separation in time from the moment at hand."

Again, he sighed. "Not necessarily, sir."

"Well that's rather rum."

"Sir, perchance did you attempt to contemplate, as I suggested, the origin of your objections to Lord Filbert's amorous attentions towards me?"

"Indeed I did, although we both appear to have been mistaken on that front. He can't be too keen on you if he gave up the privilege of lip-lock without so much as a heartfelt tear."

"Nevertheless, sir..."

"Oh, all right," I said, fishing around in my trouser pocket and forking over the list I had made. "I thought it over and wrote it down. Can't make heads or tails of it, myself."

Jeeves perused the list with a thoughtful eye, his lips contracting briefly so that it almost appeared as though he had stifled a smile. "I am not certain what you mean when you say you felt 'indefinable,' sir. I have always known you to feel quite well-defined and confident in your own personality."

"It was not young Bertram I was attempting to define as indefinable," I clarified, "but the emotion associated therewith."

"I see. And have you experienced this enigmatic emotion on occasions additional to its initial insurgence?"

"Why yes. I noticed this indefinable whatzit on multiple instances throughout the day, spiking, as it were, during a particularly rummy conversation at dinner, and then again this A.M., as I burst into this very room to find Fippy prowling towards you like a buffalo in heat."

"And do you have any further emotions to append to the list? Feelings, perhaps, triggered by our dramatic enactment?"

This query made me hesitate. I ruddy well did have feelings of this sort, but they were not the sort of thoughts of which I would wish to set pen to page, despite the associated pleasant prospect of watching Jeeves' cheeks blush into the deepest crimson imaginable. "I do," I said at last, "but they are of a nature unfit to memorialize in print."

"I apprehend perfectly, sir. But with your permission, I would postulate that the 'indefinable' emotion to which you refer might possibly be jealousy."

"Jealousy, eh? The old green-eyed m.?" I thought it over, trying it on like a new sport coat. It fit like a dream. "Yes, all right. That's the one."

"Let me recite for you, then, the amended list: 'Panicked, affronted, jealous (in a recurrent capacity), acrimonious, betrayed, sulky, agitated, and desperate.' Does this pattern suggest anything to you?"

"As before, Jeeves, they are an utter mystery. I was never very good at anagrams."

"I might suggest that you consider these reactions to be unified by a common emotional motivation."

"Still not a clue."

"Imagine, if you will, how Lord Bristow-Pemberley – the "chappie" – likely reacted when his intended fiancée, Miss Pryce, was discovered interacting with Jones – the valet – in a flirtatious capacity during the opening act of 'Mrs. Sir'?"

I cogitated, the answer arriving with surprising swiftness. "Why, he would have responded with the exact sequence listed above."

"Precisely, sir. And why did he respond this way?"

"Well, because he was in love with the valet, of course, only at the time he was probably too daft to appreciate said font of tribulation as the siren's call of true love."

"An apt assessment, sir." He handed me the list and looked on expectantly.

"So what you're implying," I deduced, "is that I have been behaving as if I were in love with you."

Again, he sighed, though this instance was more along the lines of relief. "Precisely, sir."

"Well that makes no bally sense at all. It was not half an hour ago that your method acting method of acting first induced my bosom to swell with hearty longing and what, yet by all accounts I have been behaving like a lovelorn pup for days."

The relief evaporated from his face. "I believe it would be more accurate to amend that timetable to a matter of years, sir."

"Years, Jeeves?"

"Yes, sir."

"You mean to say that I have been in love with you without my own knowledge for years?"

"Yes, sir."

"Blimey."

"Yes, sir."

"Well, dash it, Jeeves, why didn't you tell me?"

"I felt that it would be preferable for you to realize it of your own accord."

"Hence the numerous hoops of deduction through which I have so recently been urged to leap sans your usual benefit of exposition."

"Precisely, sir."

I frowned as the situation began to take shape. "Well, this is rather awkward, isn't it?"

"Sir?"

"My being in love with you, that is. You've borne up bracingly to date, but I fear that circs will change now that I'm finally in the know."

"It does not trouble me, if that is what you are implying, sir."

"So you won't be leaving me?"

"Most assuredly not, sir."

"Well that's jolly good news. And I swear to you, Jeeves, that I am no Fippy. I shall take no steps to molest you in any way superfluous to your typical duties."

Jeeves frowned and glided across the room to provide me with a fresh helping of scotch. "I hope you understand, sir, that I would never have taken steps to abet your enlightenment if I believed it would cause you any pain."

"Well, a splash of yearning is only to be expected, after all. But I promise to keep it under wraps, what?"

"What I am trying to express, sir, is that your feelings towards me are by no means unilateral."

"Eh?"

"I mean to say that they are reciprocated. Ardently so."

I'm afraid that I looked horribly unattractive at that moment, opening and closing my mouth like a goldfish. But fortunately Jeeves did not seem to mind, for he did not retract his declaration. "Do you mean to tell me, Jeeves, that you are in love with me?"

"Yes, sir."

"Passionately?"

"Oh, yes, sir." He blushed, here, prompting a stirring in my trousers to reflect the rapid thumping of my heart and the giddiness in my head.

"Well that is convenient, isn't it?"

He resisted the temptation to stifle his small smile. "Most certainly, sir."

"I think, perhaps," I said with an air of mischief, "that we ought to rehearse our scene again, in case it should happen that your telegram goes astray and we are obliged to perform."

"A most prudent course of action, sir."

"Shall we dispense with the dialogue?"

"With pleasure, sir."

He leaned forward, and we were about to enjoy our first taste of the mutual l. without the trappings of pretense or gorm when Fippy burst inconveniently into the room.

"Enough rehearsing for now, my dear eggs! It's time for luncheon. We shall recommence our efforts at one o' clock, starting with the musical number. I hope you can sing the bass line, Bertie, because Jeeves must take the tenor bit."

To both of our evident frustration, he shuttled us thence from the room.

 

* * *

 

Jeeves' telegram arrived just after luncheon, to the delight of all save poor Fippy, who seemed genuinely devastated. Less than half an hour later, Jeeves was loading our baggage into the car in preparation for our return.

"I can't help but wonder, Jeeves," I mused, leaning back against the car as I enjoyed a gasper and watched the over-passing clouds. "If I have really been unknowingly besotted for all these years, why have you waited so long to encourage me along in said revelation? Is it that your own attachment is only recently realized?"

"No, sir. My affection for you has been ongoing for at least as long as yours for me."

"Then why now? What inspiration stirred you to set the gears in motion?"

"Well, sir, it is frequently remarked that patience is a virtue."

"And that virtue is its own reward."

"Precisely sir. But as we have both been so virtuous and patient, I recently came of the opinion that we had earned the right to progress to the 'reward' phase of the proceedings."

"I'm glad you did, Jeeves, for a dashed fine opinion it turned out to be."

"Thank you, sir."

"As an expression of my gratitude, I might direct your attention to that safari in New Zealand you've been longing for."

"I believe you mean Kenya, sir?"

"Right-ho. Whatever you say. What do you reckon? A week?"

"I would suggest that a minimum of two weeks would be advisable, sir."

"Two weeks it is, then."

"Very good, sir."

Seeing him thusly chuffed, I leaned in to reap the benefits of the aforementioned concession, only to have Fippy burst out of the entrance hall and scramble down onto the drive.

"Oh, Bertie, old egg, I'm glad I caught you!"

"What is it?" The Wooster impatience shone through like a New York blaze of pinkish neon.

"The next time you're at the Drones, would you kindly instruct Oofy to send the cheque along here? I won't be back to town for several weeks."

"Cheque? What cheque?"

"Oh, didn't you know? I bet Oofy that I could get you to kiss Jeeves this week-end. A hundred quid! He'll be absolutely livid!" Here, Fippy broke down into incoherent chortling.

I, however, narrowed my eyes, unamused, and glanced at Jeeves, who was examining a spot of gravel in the vicinity of his shoes. "And may I ask who put you up to this lucrative wager?"

"It was my butler, Coombs, who initially suggested it," he said, contradicting my immediate hypothesis, "but I hadn't an inkling how to pull it all off. So I put it to Jeeves as soon as you arrived and, of course, he came up with the plan in a blink. Cytology of the individual and all that. He's a corker, your Jeeves."

"Oh, yes," I replied through gritted teeth. "A corker."

As Fippy scooted off, I turned to Jeeves with a vengeful eye. "I have been used," I said. "Used and manipulated."

Jeeves, at least, had the good sense to look ashamed. "I am afraid that statement is not far from the truth, sir."

"And I presume you know the butler from the Ganymede?"

"Yes, sir. Coombs and I serve together on the Committee for Elegant Dress. He mentioned his lordship's desire to win a pecuniary victory over Mr. Prosser and I took the liberty of proposing this scheme as a solution."

"So it was you who revealed to Fippy the secret to getting the Wooster goat."

"Yes, sir."

"And instructed him to devote great chunks of conversation to the merits of your sovereign-bouncable bum."

"I beg your pardon, sir?" His eyes were as the hunted fox who, thinking himself clever, has disguised himself as a hound only to discover that a great many more hounds are fatally trampled by the horses of the Quorn than foxes are sent to their doom after a lengthy pursuit.

"Nothing, nothing," I hastened by way of reply. From his expression, it was apparent that Jeeves was unaware of certain details related to the execution of his plan, meaning that either Fippy was a master of improvisation or he had applied himself to the Stanislavsky with a bit too much vim. That is to say, in endeavoring to establish empathy in his role as a salivating valet-fancier, he had taken up the habit in full force.

Deeming it advisable to remove this element from the conversational equation, as it were, I decided to push forward. "So what you mean to say is that it was all an act - that Fippy has never yearned for your tender embrace."

"It is highly unlikely, sir."

How little he knew, was the general line of my thoughts, but I refrained from giving them voice. Instead, I put forth the issue that had been nagging at me since the onset of this rummy turn of events. "And similarly apocryphal – if that's the word I want – was your professed affection for me?"

"On the contrary, sir!" Jeeves appeared highly affronted. "My feelings towards you are precisely as I have expressed."

Though mollified by this assurance, I pressed on. "And yet you have abused me sorely, using Fippy to manipulate me like a ruddy marionette."

"I must confess it is so, sir."

"With the net result a fat payoff and the perfect opportunity to seduce your unsuspecting employer."

"I fear so, sir."

I nodded and drew myself up. "About that two-week safari in Romania..."

"Yes sir?" I could perceive the depth of his contrition by the fact that he did not endeavor to correct me.

"Let's make it a month."

Jeeves's bated breath gave way to a sigh of relief, and he smiled as unguardedly as I had ever observed over the duration of our acquaintance. "Very good, sir."

"You'll make the arrangements as soon as we return to town."

"Certainly, sir."

"And while you're at it, I'll be requiring box seat tickets for two to an evening performance of 'Mrs. Sir'. I'd like to see what all the fuss is about."

"It will be my pleasure to oblige, sir."

"And one more thing..."

"Yes, sir?"

I stepped forward, trapping him in the corner of the car door and planting upon him the most ardent of kisses a chappie could summon. Thankfully, I managed not to faint on this go-round, and pulled away to leave him breathless and panting, hands firmly placed upon the Wooster hips. "You know, Fippy was right about one thing," I remarked, still trying to catch my wind.

"Sir?"

"You, my dear man, are a sexy beast."

"Thank you, sir," Jeeves replied with a bow, and, escorting me to the passenger seat, he drove us back to town.

End.


End file.
